


tripping, falling, with no safety net

by littlethiefs



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dara's a workaholic who runs his own law firm and hates it, F/M, I'm taking it chapter by chapter, Might add more characters as this goes along who knows, Nahri's a med school student struggling with money, Please deal with it, There is no magic or fantasy, They meet and the rest is history, This is plain ol vanilla contemporary romance but with my BABIES, this is NOT canon compliant, this is very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28123398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlethiefs/pseuds/littlethiefs
Summary: After his parents' death, Dara took over his father's law firm. Honoring the family legacy and carrying on the Afshin name is all that has mattered to him since, even if he has no love for what he does. And then one night in a bar, he meets a black-eyed medical student named Nahri who leaves him a little breathless and a lot curious.
Relationships: Darayavahoush e-Afshin & Muntadhir al Qahtani, Darayavahoush e-Afshin/Nahri e-Nahid, Jamshid e-Pramukh/Muntadhir al Qahtani
Comments: 32
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astarisms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/gifts), [SparrowPixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparrowPixie/gifts).



> Gifting this to astarisms and SparrowPixie because you two are Danahri queens. <3

He leaned over his desk with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, looking over the reports from last month. His firm had taken on far more than it could handle with this new case, and he was short-staffed as it was. The sky behind him was already dark. Raindrops flecked the window panes, the lights of the city filtering through the water droplets in sharp bursts of color. The sound of a distant siren cut through the heavy silence of his office. Dara leaned back in his chair, an exhausted sigh escaping his lips. He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt then rolled up his sleeves. It was going to be another long night.

He did not know how long he’d been sitting there, poring over old case law and the memorandums his associates had typed out for him, when a gentle knock made him look up. A short woman peered at him from the open door, a vacuum cleaner settled beside her, a soft smile on her lips. “I brought you this,” Fairuza said, walking over to him with a plastic container held out in one hand. Dara straightened, running a hand through his hair.

“Bit of a risk,” he said, taking it from her, only then realizing that he had not eaten since breakfast. “What if I’d left?” Fairuza laughed at that. He opened the container and the smell of freshly baked flatbread invaded his senses.

“You are always here,” Fairuza said as he dug in. “I bet you see more of the cleaning crew than you do anyone at home,” she said, straightening the holder that held his business cards.

“There is nothing at home,” he said simply. “And there is far too much to do here.” He finished off the bread, the snack somehow making him hungrier than he had been before. “Do you have more?” Fairuza smiled, turning away from him.

“I’ll tell you what, Dara. If you leave this building right now, I’ll bring more for you tomorrow.” 

“How can I say no to that?” Dara said, feeling himself smile. He stretched his limbs, the back of his chair squeaking perilously under his weight. He looked over the papers strewn across his desk, then glanced at the clock to see it was past eight; everyone normal had left over three hours ago while he sat there, in the dark, kept company by the rain, Fairuza and the rest of the cleaning crew. He supposed he had done what he could do for the evening, and perhaps he could look over the files some more when he got home. Getting to his feet, Dara unwrapped his suit jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on. Fairuza gave him a satisfied smile before leaving the room, vacuum in tow.

“Now go home and get a proper meal on you. And sleep. Look at those dark circles under your eyes,” she called, retrieving a pair of polythene gloves from her pocket and snapping them on. 

“Alright, mother,” Dara grumbled, checking his pockets for his phone, wallet and keys. Bidding her a goodnight, Dara flicked off the lights of his office and made his way to the elevators, his shoes clicking against the marble floor. On the way down from the twentieth floor, Dara leaned against the elevator wall and ran a hand over his eyes, the exhaustion finally settling over his shoulders. He needed sleep, and yet… the work wasn’t going to do itself.

The doors slid open and he glided through the lobby, hands in his pockets, inclining his head politely when the receptionist called a “Goodnight, sir.” He paused at the doors, watching the rain batter the city mercilessly. Tying his hair into a sloppy bun, he stepped out into the rain. It would ruin his suit. Dara had plenty of suits.

His car was called to the front and he slid into the back leaving damp tracks on the leather seats. “Where to, sir?” his driver, Rahim, asked after tipping his hat in greeting. He should go home. Eat something. Sleep, like Fairuza had said. Instead, Dara answered, “The West Village. I could use a drink.”

“The usual place?” Rahim asked. Dara was about to say yes when he pictured himself sitting in the yellow light upon a burgundy leather couch, having to greet and converse with everyone who knew him there. From partners at other firms to junior associates to people he had known at school; somehow, they all drifted there like moths to an open flame. Grimacing, he shook his head.

“No. Somewhere inconspicuous,” he said before resting his head against the back of his seat and closing his eyes. 

*

He walked into the dimly lit establishment, met with sounds of chatter and laughter and clinking glasses. He made his way through groups of people far more enthusiastic than him, swaying to music that made his head hurt. Dara grimaced at his own thoughts. When had he gotten so boring? Shrugging out of his jacket, he flung it haphazardly on a bar stool before swinging onto another, then gesturing at the bartender and ordering a drink. He downed it within a couple of minutes and raised a hand for another when the bartender shot him a grin.

“Someone got your next for you,” he said before turning away to pour in Dara’s glass. Dara frowned, looking around curiously for his mystery benefactor when he heard the seat with his jacket on it move beside him. Someone placed themselves unceremoniously onto the stool and Dara turned to look into a pair of bottomless black eyes.

“Hello,” the woman said, one side of her full lips tilting up into a sly smile. She had wild hair which fell around her shoulders in thick curls, untamable. She leaned her head on a palm, elbow propped on the counter. “Miserable evening, isn’t it?” she said, gesturing towards the pouring rain.

“You’re sitting on my jacket,” he said simply, looking away and taking a sip of his whiskey.

“You’ll live,” she said. “It’s wet anyway.” She shifted on the seat and Dara raised an eyebrow to appraise her once more. “Usually when you buy a drink for someone, they say thanks.” 

He raised his glass to her and in a voice dripping with sarcasm said, “Thank you.” He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and pulled it out, sighing when he saw the name of the opposing counsel, from a case he was working on, light up the screen. He was almost about to leave his seat to go someplace quiet when the woman spoke up again.

“You’re very rude,” she said simply. “Here I sit, trying to strike up a conversation and there  _ you _ sit, frowning at your phone.” Dara hit the mute button before placing his phone on the counter and turning to look at her. 

“It is very flattering that you have chosen to focus your attention on me tonight,” he began, “but I have had a disastrous day and I’m afraid I will not be good company.” He surveyed the room once again and spotted another man sitting by himself at the western end of the counter. Leaning in conspiratorially towards her, Dara said, “How about him? He looks just as broody, but I guarantee he’s far less sullen.”

“Far less pompous too, I bet,” she said, her smile growing wider. “Okay, have it your way. Don’t speak to me. Can I at least sit here and have my drink?” Dara nodded, then felt for his wallet and pulled it out, placing a bill on the counter.

“Next one’s on me.” She rolled her eyes and called out her order, watching Dara take another sip. Her eyes traveled over his face, his shirt - its top button still undone. Then she took in the tattoo snaking around his left arm, the ink peeking from under his rolled-up sleeves, before her eyes finally landed on the ring on his index finger. Feeling slightly self-conscious, Dara began to fiddle with the wallet still placed in front of him, tapping a rhythm on its leather exterior. Finally, her drink arrived and she looked away from him. She did not speak again.

They sat side-by-side, sipping their drinks in silence. He was acutely aware of her presence, of the attention that she had been giving him and had just as easily taken away. Dara glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw she was tapping away at her phone, seeming completely uninterested in him, taking small sips of her cocktail as she did so. His phone lit up again, the vibrations making an ugly sound against the marble countertop. He looked down at it, itching to pick it up, to give himself an excuse to get up and leave, to fall back into the pit that he called work. Instead, he switched it off and pocketed it. Then, he turned to her.

“It is a miserable evening,” he said. Slowly, she lowered her glass and looked at him, a small, triumphant smile playing at her lips. He felt himself return it, albeit involuntarily. 

“I’m Nahri.”

“Dara,” he said and shook the hand that she held out. Her skin was cool to the touch. 

“Why was your day disastrous, Dara?” she asked conversationally, sipping the last remnants of her drink. Dara called for more before answering.

“You would think that after almost a year of having taken over my father’s law firm, I would have learned to take cases my staff and I can handle and passing over the rest. But it seems I am obsessed with seeing how far I can make myself go before it gets too much,” he shrugged, unsure why the confession was pouring out in a crowded bar to a woman he had met twenty minutes ago. Nahri leaned back.

“You don’t look like an attorney,” she observed with a raised eyebrow, taking in his tattoos again. Dara ran a hand over his damp hair and smiled half-heartedly.

“Yes, well. I am. Damn good at it too.”

“Pompous,” she teased and he shrugged. 

“What do  _ you _ do?” he asked, finishing his third drink of the evening. Deciding it was enough, he pushed his glass away but Nahri called for another for herself. 

“I’m a doctor. Well, almost. Last year of medical school,” Dara traced the movement of her hand as she scratched her right cheek absent-mindedly as she spoke, before her fingers wrapped around her glass again. Her nails were painted, the color chipped, and he couldn’t tell in the low light whether they were black or a deep blue. “A lawyer and a doctor meet in a bar… I feel like there’s a joke there somewhere.” He didn’t miss how quickly she’d moved on from the topic of her own life, but before he could pry, she asked him another question and then another, and conversation began to flow as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

“Do you come here often?” he asked after a comfortable silence had descended between them.

“All the ti-” she hiccuped and her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, voice muffled behind her fingers. Dara laughed quietly.

“You’re drunk,” he noted. “How are you drunk already?”

“Been here a while,” she said, swallowing back another hiccup. Dara’s eyes fell on her phone which had lit up with a text, and he saw the clock read 10:06. His stomach rumbled again from hunger and an idea began to take form in his head. Because he hadn’t done  _ this _ in a long time and it felt good. 

“Do you want to get something to eat?” he asked. Her eyes widened with surprise, almost imperceptibly, before she nodded. Dara got to his feet and she followed, reaching for her bag to pay for the rest of her drinks. Waving her off, he dropped his credit card on the counter before reaching over to take his jacket from her seat. It was horribly creased, yet somehow he didn’t mind it. “When he brings back the card, tip for me. I’ll be right back,” he said to her, laying his jacket over his wallet on the counter and making his way to the back of the building.

He was thinking of what to eat on the way back from the restroom - perhaps two massive slices of pizza from that hole-in-the-wall place he loved, or maybe they could get a fancy dinner near the river - when he saw that she was gone. 

So was his jacket. And so was his wallet.

Dara stared, dumbfounded. “What the fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dara goes looking for the thief.

His state of stupor lasted only a brief moment, but then he was off, swearing under his breath. Dara ran through the bar, emerging into the rain. Rahim, who had been standing to the side, straightened at the sight of him and quickly made his way over. “Did you see a woman leave?” Dara asked urgently. “Curly hair, dark brown skin? She was wearing a black jumpsuit. About yea high,” he raised a hand parallel to his ear. Rahim shook his head looking utterly perplexed. Dara groaned, looking to his left and then to his right - she couldn’t have gotten far but he didn’t know which direction to start in. What if she’d taken a cab? But no, she’d be in a hurry; it would have been too risky to stop and hail a cab when the person she’d just robbed was a few feet away. 

Dara swore again before making a split decision; he turned right and began to run, ignoring Rahim’s yells. He’d been conned, like a fool! That thought spurred him on faster. It wasn’t the money; he had more money than he knew what to do with. It was the principle of the thing - to be robbed, like he was a teenage boy easily swindled by a beautiful woman with her pretty words. But it was also the credit cards he would have to cancel, his ID… and one other thing he needed back. Half desperately, half furiously, he scanned the streets through sheets of rain, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

And then he saw someone a little ways ahead of him, jostling their way through the crowd on quick feet and furtive glances back in his general direction, though it seemed she didn’t know he was on her trail. He’d been looking for a jumpsuit, but she had his gray jacket wrapped over her head and around her shoulders as a shield against the rain.  _ Got you _ , he thought, and began to run towards her. At the end of the block, she turned right and out of sight. Dara followed her into a quiet, cobblestoned street lined with shuttered stores. “Will you stop?” he yelled in her direction, still jogging towards her. She yelped, looked back, before beginning to run herself.

She hadn’t gotten far when she stumbled over her own feet and had to steady herself against a storefront. Dara caught up to her, breathing heavily. “You’re drunk!” he exclaimed, snatching his wallet out of her hands. “You  _ robbed _ me then tried to run. In heels. In the rain. While you’re  _ drunk _ .” She glared, then turned and started walking away as if she had nothing else to say to him. Incredulous, Dara called, “Hey!”

“You got your wallet. Now go away,” she yelled back.

“You’re still wearing my jacket,” he said, the rain getting in his eyes. She turned to face him, eyes blazing, her full mouth set in a straight line. She freed her head from under his jacket and flung it at him; it fluttered pathetically between them and fell in a dull heap on the ground. Dara walked over to pick it up and then said again, “You robbed me.”

“Oh, boo fucking hoo,” she threw up her hands as if his objections were a complete overreaction. “You would have lost a little cash, who cares? And I’m  _ so-rry _ ,” she hissed, not sounding sorry at all. “I needed the money.” Dara stepped under the shade of a store’s awning before reaching out to take her arm, pulling her in next to him and out of the rain.

“You can’t just rob people when you need money.” 

“Don’t stand there lecturing me in your $6,000 suit.” Dara stared, at a loss for words. Her wet hair was now sticking to her face, droplets trickling down her skin. She stood, arms crossed across her chest, refusing to meet his eyes, looking a little angry, a little annoyed and a lot embarrassed. Silently, he held out his jacket to her. He shook it insistently when she didn’t immediately take it. 

“Fine, but for future reference, it’s a terrible idea to steal from someone in my line of work.” When she said nothing, Dara sighed and opened his wallet. He pulled out his ID, his debit card, and the folded paper he kept tucked away in one of the card slots. Leaving everything else where it was, he held it out to her. She looked at him, suspicion etched into every feature. “I’ll call the credit card companies and tell them to lock the cards tomorrow evening, alright? The pin is 4155. Don’t… buy a car or anything, but take it. I just needed something back,” he said, pocketing the piece of paper, her eyes following his hands.

Nahri - if that was her real name - sighed, then pushed his wallet away. She took the jacket though and shrugged her arms into it. “I’m not taking your charity,” she said, crossing her arms again.

“Oh, but thievery is okay?” She shrugged, though her expression had softened, and Dara choked out a laugh. He put his hands in his pockets and swayed on the spot, trying not to stare but his eyes kept flitting back to her face every few seconds. “You’re drunk,” he said once more. “I’ll call you a cab home.”

“Good plan. Wish I had a home to go to,” she said simply and he stopped swaying.

“Where do you sleep?” he asked stupidly.

“Crashing on a friend’s floor for the time being, though her lease ends in a month and she’s leaving the city, in which case, I’ll be royally fucked. Which is why I was sitting at a bar waiting to rob some rich, arrogant jerk.” Dara bristled.

“You’re a shit conwoman. You didn’t last seven minutes. Don’t make this your career.” 

“And I’m supposed to take tips from you?”

“Of course. All lawyers are cons.” The side of her mouth twitched up into a small smile and he caught himself staring yet again. Clearing his throat, he spoke. “Did you lie about your name too?”

“No,” she said, taking a step closer to him. “I’m still Nahri. Are  _ you _ still hungry?” 

“Famished,” he answered, surprised once more at how black her eyes were.

“Me too. It’s your treat.” She slid a hand casually into the crook of his arm and began to steer him back to where they’d come from. 

*

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, falling in gentle taps onto Manhattan’s now-empty streets. It was almost one o’clock, and the only people still milling about were those who had nothing better to do and those who had nowhere else to go. Dara leaned against the brick wall of the pizza place, his breath leaving his lips in puffs. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lit one. He took a long drag, closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, the cool evening air against his damp skin surprisingly pleasant. Now that he’d eaten, he was feeling tired again - all he wanted to do was go home, take a shower and collapse onto his sheets.

The click of her heels made him straighten and he saw her emerge from the pizza place. She’d gone to the restroom and he noticed that she’d tamed the wet, loose curls that had been haloing her head and dabbed some lipstick on her mouth. She stopped in her tracks when she saw him, his cigarette dangling from his lips. She scrunched her nose.

“That’s a terrible habit,” she stated. Dara’s lips quirked up in a smile, remembering how his mother used to scold him for smoking. He took another drag, then one more, and then dropped it to the ground, stepping on it to extinguish the flame.She peered at him from behind thick-lashed eyes. “So… I guess I’ll go, then. Thank you for the dinner. And,” Nahri sighed, before muttering a quiet, “andi’msorry.”

Dara leaned his ear forward playfully. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Too bad, because I’m not saying it again.” 

“How will you get to your friend’s apartment?” he asked, walking over to his car, twirling the keys on a finger. He had relieved Rahim for the evening when they’d arrived to eat; Dara may have had no pressing concerns waiting for him at home, but his driver had a family to get back to. 

“I’ll take the subway,” she said, looking around for the first time. A frown creased her forehead and she turned on the spot, squinting at the sign that indicated they were standing on Bleecker Street, clearly trying to puzzle out which train line she’d take. Finally, she turned to him again and smiled. “Okay, well, bye then.”

“Bye,” he said with an incline of his head, the disappointment that had been swirling in his stomach solidifying now that the night was over. When she began to walk away, Dara opened his car door and got in the driver’s seat. His gaze fell on the time - it was past one now, and he had to be up in five hours for work. He watched her, her head bent low over her phone, still wearing his jacket because he hadn’t bothered to ask for it back. For the hundredth time that day, he told himself to go home, get some sleep. Instead, he started the car and drove it forward in a slow crawl until he was parallel to her. Lowering the passenger window, he said “I can take you.”

Nahri leaned into the car through the open window, eyes endearingly wide. “It’s all the way in Brooklyn, I couldn’t ask-”

“I’m offering.” She hesitated for a brief moment, then clicked the door open and slid inside. “Put your address in,” he said, gesturing to the GPS before pulling away from the curb to begin his drive downtown. Silence fell between them as she tapped her address into the system, the only sounds her fingers on the screen and the windshield wiper flicking away the droplets of rain. He saw her run her palms over her arms under the jacket and turned up the heat.

“Do you not listen to any music?” she asked and only then did he notice she was examining the contents of his car system, flipping through the folders and the music apps, all of which were empty. 

“Not in the car, no,” he said, turning left onto Third Avenue. 

“So what do you do on the way to and from work? Sit in silence with Rahim?”

“I work,” he answered. “Answer emails, look over reports, follow up on any leads for cases I’m working on. There’s plenty to do as is. I can’t afford distractions.” Nahri turned her body in her seat to face him but didn’t say anything. Feeling self-conscious, he glanced at her. “What?”

“My God, you’re boring,” she said and Dara scowled. Nahri leaned her head back against her window and closed her eyes. “I did  _ not _ expect this night to end up where it has… the man I attempted to rob driving me home in his music-less car.” Dara immediately reached out and clicked on the radio, a shrill pop song blaring from the speakers. From the corner of his eye, he saw her smile, her eyes still closed.

They were on the Brooklyn Bridge twenty minutes later, the city lights rapidly fading behind them when she switched the radio off. “Where do you live?” she asked.

“Midtown. East of the park.”

“Where all the stuck-up rich folks live?”

“My people,” he said drily and she laughed, a full, sweet sound that made his own lips quirk up in return. “What will you do when the friend you’re living with moves away from the city?” He’d been thinking about it every now and then throughout the night, having to live such an uncertain life. He’d never had to experience that; he’d grown up in the apartment he still lived in, never having to worry about money or food, his life trajectory planned out for him before he’d even been a thought. Become a lawyer like his father and his father before him. Take over the family firm when the time came, carry forth the family legacy and the Afshin name. And here she was, not knowing if she’d have a roof over her head in a month’s time.

Nahri sighed, cupping her neck with a palm. “I don’t know,” she finally answered.

“Your parents?”

“Dead.”

“So are mine,” he said, turning right and off the bridge. He didn’t give her any empty platitudes and neither did she. “You don’t have any other family here?” 

She didn’t speak for a long time but then gave a clipped, “no.” He frowned, his curiosity piquing at the obvious lie, but he said nothing, not wanting to pry. “I have an uncle of sorts who lives in Vermont,” she added hastily, and he suspected she was trying to steer the conversation away from family. “Maybe if I can’t find a place to stay, I can go live with him.”

“What about school?” 

“Guess I’ll have to drop out. Not much of a choice between school or a place to sleep,” she said, forcing a lightness in her voice. He glanced at her again - she was looking out of her window, gaze fixed on the blocks and blocks of brick apartment buildings lining the side of the road. Finally, Dara brought his car to a stop at the curb having arrived at their destination. They sat in silence for a while before she took her seatbelt off and opened the door. 

She waved at him with the hand she held her heels in and began to turn away. “Wait!” he called out and she stopped. Swiftly, he opened the dashboard, pulled out a business card and held it out to her. “If you ever need anything,” he said, pathetically, not knowing what else to say. She took it from him, her fingers brushing against his, then gave him one final smile and turned away. He watched her enter her building, before he sighed and began his drive home.

He was almost at the bridge, stopped at a red light, when his phone began to buzz, an unknown number lighting up his screen. Frowning, Dara picked it up. “Hello?”

“You’re going to hate me,” came her voice on the other end, sounding huskier on the phone than it had when she was with him. “Can you come back?” The clock flashed 1:43am as Dara immediately made a u-turn.

She was standing near the entrance when he pulled up outside the building, her shoes and purse still held in her hands. She rushed over, looking flushed and sheepish. He rolled the window down and raised an eyebrow at her.

“She’s not home. She sent me texts earlier in the evening, but I didn’t see them until now.

And I forgot my keys.” Dara sat back and switched the ignition off.

“Do you know when she’ll be back? I can wait with you,” he said, his eyes feeling heavy. How he was going to drive all the way back to Midtown, he did not know. It seemed he couldn’t help but make foolish decisions today. 

“Not until tomorrow,” she said and bit her lip, hesitating before saying what he knew she was about to say next. “Can I stay with you for tonight? I’ll crash on the couch, you won’t even know I’m there, and I’ll be gone before you know it in the morning.” Dara stared at her in a daze, her words from earlier coming back to him. How had this evening ended up where it had… 

“Can you drive?” He asked her. When she nodded slowly, he got out of the car and made his way over to the passenger side where she was standing. “Okay. I live on 63rd and 5th. You drive.” Then, he opened the passenger door, slid inside, reclined the seat and closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a sleepover and an old friend.

A gentle hand was nudging his shoulder. Dara’s eyes fluttered open, and it took him a few seconds to realize he was in his car, the city’s lights twinkling above him. “I think we’re here,” Nahri said, one hand still resting on his shoulder while she steered with the other. Dara groaned and sat up to see his building approaching on his side.

“Right over here,” he said, his voice coming out husky from sleep. Nahri pulled over and switched the ignition off, looking up at the entrance of the building with a slightly dazed expression. Before either of them could say anything, the doorman rushed over, opening Dara’s door for him and bidding him a good evening. Dara nodded at him, stepping out of the car. Nahri followed. Dara gestured for the keys with a hand which she promptly handed over to the doorman before Dara beckoned for her to follow him and they made their way inside.

The receptionist looked surprised to see him return at almost 3AM with a woman, but she schooled her features in a mask of politeness and bid them a good night. Nahri, however, was captivated by the lobby. It was expansive, the floor covered in white marble veined with grey. Bronze pots with lush green plants lined the floors, artwork hanging on the walls. When they reached the elevators, she ran a hand over the ornate table settled between the two lifts, feeling the gold details with delicate fingertips.

“Try not to steal anything, little thief,” he said, hands in his pockets as they waited for the elevator. “I have a reputation to uphold; it would be terribly embarrassing if everyone here found out that Darayavahoush e-Afshin brought a quick-fingered con artist into their building.”

Nahri scowled at him. “With a name like that, I wouldn’t worry about  _ me _ embarrassing you.” Dara laughed, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. A full laugh that startled even him. With a ding, the elevator doors clicked open and they walked inside. They got off on the 19th floor and Dara reached for his keycard. 

“After you,” he said when the door swung open. Nahri stepped inside, her heels clicking on the hardwood. He followed, watching her look around with raised eyebrows, taking in the space. The wall opposite the door was entirely glass, overlooking the park. The other walls were painted a dark grey, some covered with photographs that he no longer looked at, others lined with bookshelves holding books his father had owned, books he no longer touched.

His home was his home, nothing more, nothing less. It was empty and forlorn now but Dara could never imagine leaving it behind even if the silence sometimes made it hard for him to breathe. The floors were adorned with Persian rugs his father had handpicked from Iran, the furniture selected by his mother after long hours poring over catalogs. The huge, L-shaped couch in front of the electric fireplace, where he and his sister had sat on rainy nights, watching movies and bickering over the stupidest things. That was all gone now, but the house with its solid walls and the floor beneath his feet? That remained. It had to be enough.

Dara shut the door behind him and cleared his throat. “There are two empty rooms upstairs,” he said, pointing to the stairs on the right. “There’s another on this floor,” pointing in the corner. “Or if you want to sleep on the couch like you promised, knock yourself out. I sleep there.” He nodded towards the western end of the living room where a small corridor led to his bedroom. 

Nahri finally walked further into the apartment. Placing her heels beside the couch, she took a seat and watched him as he stepped into the kitchen. “Water?” she asked. He pulled out two glass bottles from the fridge, walked over to the couch and handed one to her. He hesitated for a brief moment, then took a seat beside her, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig. Nahri turned to look out of the window, the park dark and silent below them, treetops swaying in the wind. She whistled, low and impressed. “Must be nice. I’ve never stepped foot in a place like this.”

“If you like this lifestyle so much, you could do what a lot of young people in New York do, you know,” he teased. When she looked at him questioningly, he clarified. “Sugar daddies?” 

Nahri raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you offering?” 

Dara coughed on his sip of water, heat rushing into his cheeks. “No, of course not,” he stammered. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound like-” She placed a hand on his arm, stopping the words that were pouring from his mouth, a twinkle in her eyes and a satisfied smile playing at her lips. Dara was suddenly all too aware that he had a beautiful woman sitting beside him in his empty apartment in the early hours of the morning. She was so close... smelling of rain water and perfume, her eyes even blacker in the dim light of his home.

“You live here all by yourself?” she asked then, breaking the silence and taking another look around. Dara swallowed, shifting a few inches away from her, hoping it was subtle.

“All by myself,” he answered, taking another swig of his water. She turned her body towards him, pulling her legs up onto the couch while she did so. 

“Get yourself a girl, Dara,” she said animatedly. “I’m sure it’s not  _ difficult _ for you. I mean, look at you.” She gestured vaguely at his face, making him flush again.  _ Are you offering? _ He thought, but did not say. Instead, he got to his feet, undoing the knot of his already loose tie. 

“I can put your clothes in the dryer,” he said. “I don’t have anything for you to wear to bed apart from something of mine?” Nahri nodded, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it to him. Dara smiled and took it from her. “Be right back.”

A few minutes later, he had emerged from his room carrying an old t-shirt he hadn’t worn since he was in law school and a pair of pajamas that would be too big for her, but they were better than nothing. She took them, pointing feebly at the other room on the ground floor and shuffling over to it. Dara leaned against the wall, desperately wanting to shower and change out of his own clothes. Her door clicked open and she poked out an arm holding her clothes, the rest of her hidden behind the door. He grabbed them, then hesitated.

“I don’t think I’ll see you in the morning,” he started. “I’ll leave for work before you wake up. I’ll leave your clothes outside on the couch. If you need breakfast or anything, help yourself. And,” he cleared his throat. “Okay. Goodnight.” He walked off before she could respond.

After tossing her clothes in the dryer along with his own, Dara made his way to his room. He grimaced when he saw the time - he would get a little over two hours of sleep if he was lucky. He took a shower, scrubbing himself clean, then padded his way over to bed, shoulders slumped. His wallet and the piece of paper he had tucked away into his pocket a few hours ago under an awning in the rain sat on his bedside. Sighing, Dara unfolded it to reveal the Farsi, the penmanship elegant and refined.

_ I am sorry to have missed you, but we would have missed our flight otherwise. Safe travels, my son. I love you. I am proud of you. Never forget that. And while you’re there, remember to eat and sleep. And I am telling you again to stop that smoking - it is a disgusting habit. I will see you when you return. _

_ \-- Maman _

Dara squeezed his eyes shut, placing the note carefully back on the table. He never did get to see her again. He never got to see any of them again. 

He fell back against his pillow, the sheets cool against his bare torso. Before the silence of his apartment could get too oppressive, Dara mercifully drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

*

“I have bad news.” Dara looked up from his laptop screen to see his old friend’s face peeking from the door. Dara nodded and Muntadhir strutted into the office holding a file. Dara took off his glasses and leaned back against his chair, bracing himself. Muntadhir came to stand beside Dara and handed him the file. “The judge denied our motion.”

“What?” Dara snatched the file from his hands, flipping through the pages, skimming the opinion to make sense of the travesty. “Deference to the jury… judicial role… constitutional guarantees— this is bullshit.” He tossed the file onto his desk, running a hand over his mouth in frustration. 

“I knew you’d react like this,” Muntadhir sighed, as if he was dealing with a petulant child. “It’s fine. We can appeal. Stop sulking, you look pathetic.” Dara glared daggers at him.

“Appeals are expensive. Time-consuming. This was an open and shut case. Are the people working under you fucking incompetent?” That was unfair, he knew it was— open and shut cases were lost all the time, that was the nature of his profession. But Dara’d always had a hard time accepting a loss and the anger that always seemed to be bubbling under his skin found its outlet at times like these. “The Millers’ have been caught up in this system for over a year now.” Clenching his jaw, he added, “I should have been the one to go to court for this. I would have won.”

“The judge was a dick,” Muntadhir laughed, completely unfazed by Dara’s outburst. “You would have snapped and told him to go fuck himself the first day and gotten written up for contempt.” Perhaps he had a point. Dara ran a hand through his hair before he gathered the file and handed it back to Muntadhir. 

“Get your people ready for the appeal,” he said, dreading the added workload he was going to put his associates through.

“Already on it.”

“Next time, tell the people working on the case to come tell me the bad news. I’m sick of your face,” he said, only half joking. 

“Are you kidding? They’re all terrified of you.” Muntadhir clapped him lightly on the back. “Lighten up, my friend. You’re too pretty to have a scowl on your face all the time.” 

“Save the flirting for your husband,” Dara retorted. Muntadhir was on his way out when Dara called, “And Dhiru. Go to court yourself for this. And don’t lose.”

“I never do.” 

When he was gone, Dara leaned his head forward, running a hand over his face again, his beard scratching at his palms. Exhaustion settled heavily on his shoulders, a constant presence. He had hit his snooze button four times this morning, then spent most of his remaining time frantically ironing Nahri’s clothes, placing them where he’d said he would. He’d skipped the shaving, skipped the gym and had barely scarfed down a dry piece of toast before leaving for the day. Now, he felt miserable.

She would have left by now, he thought to himself, his mind drifting. Perhaps he could text her and ask, make sure she got home alright. He unlocked his phone and had typed out a quick, “Just checking if you got home okay,” when his phone began to ring. Smiling at the name on his screen, Dara answered.

“Before you start the scolding, I already know I’m a terrible nephew because I don’t call or write or like any of your Facebook posts about your tea experiments,” Dara said before his uncle could say anything. 

“And yet you are stuck in your ways, stubborn as always,” came his voice from the other end, and Dara’s smile widened, the image of his uncle swimming up in his vision with his gentle smiles and kind eyes. Dara hadn’t seen him since he had left for Iran over ten months ago.

“It is good to hear your voice, Khayzur Amu.”

“And you, my son. Still working yourself to the bone?”

“What else is there to do?” Dara asked, fiddling with the papers on his desk, watching the sun glint off his cufflinks. “There are too many cases we’ve taken on, some more than a year old. If I’m not working, nothing will get done.”

“You have such little faith in your partners, eh? Who is that friend of yours… the sharp one. He can handle things with you. He deserves more credit than you give him.”

“Muntadhir gets all the credit I have to give, Amu,” Dara said truthfully, though if Muntadhir heard him singing his praises, Dara would simply have to kill him to avoid the constant mockery. “He is the smartest person around and handles everything far better than I can. But Baba didn’t leave the firm to him. He left it to me.”

“As his brother, I assure you that Artash wouldn’t approve of you slaving away every waking moment.” Khayzur paused then, and Dara tensed, sensing the beginning of a conversation he did not want to have. “Are you alright over there, Dara? I can come. See you. The first deat—“

“No,” Dara said, cutting Khayzur off, who immediately fell silent. “I’m fine.” He heard the faintest exhalation of breath as if his uncle was tired of trying, tired of making an effort for someone like him. Well, Dara had never asked him to do anything. And what did Khayzur know of being tired? “I’m sorry, Amu,” he said, not feeling sorry at all. “I have work to do. I’ll try to talk to you soon. Khodâfez.” He hung up before Khayzur could say a word.

It had been just over eleven months ago that Dara had hurried home and seen the note his Maman had left him attached to his door. _ I will see you soon _ . Coincidentally, he and his family were making separate trips the same day— their flight was in the afternoon to Seville, his in the evening to Tehran. He was excited, happy to go traveling, to see Iran for the first time, to hopefully take some time for himself and gather enough courage to tell his father that he did not want to take over the firm after all. Dara had been disappointed to have missed them, having been stuck in traffic… but not disappointed enough to call. Because when are young men ever thoughtful enough to do something as insignificant as calling their mothers to tell them they love them?

He had packed his bags and was on his way out, passport and boarding pass in his hand, when his phone rang.  _ So sorry to inform you… collision on I-678… everyone dead in both vehicles... _ and just like that, everything he’d known had ended. Dara had placed his belongings on the counter, left his bags next to the door and phoned the only family he had remaining. Three days later, Khayzur had arrived to see Dara calmly making funeral arrangements for his parents and his little sister. 

It wasn’t until after the funeral when Dara noticed the silence. No more sounds of his mother shuffling in the kitchen, humming while she seasoned rice or her bossing around painters because she’d decided she wanted the walls painted a different color this month. Or his father’s booming voice when he opened the door after a long day of work and announced, “I’m home” as if he expected everyone to applause. Or his little sister who used to dance in the room above his, causing soft thumps and thuds that made him yell out in frustration. Her awful music taste — house, she called it though it sounded like nails against a chalkboard to him. In his room that day, sitting on the edge of his bed, Dara noticed the silence and its oppressive press against his ears, and he did not stop noticing it until he got to his feet and flung a chair into his glass table, the sound reverberating through his apartment with a resounding crash. 

And then he broke the chair and toppled the bookshelves and smashed his vases with their lifeless flowers, water stains marring his walls. His cheeks had been wet, his vision blurry, a yell so loud echoing in his ears that he could not believe it was coming from him. And in the aftermath, when he’d stood sobbing amidst shattered porcelain and splintered wood, frantic knocking from someone on the door, Dara made his decision. 

He emerged from his room, fully dressed in a grey suit and silver cufflinks, a tie knotted pristinely around his throat. “Dara,” Khayzur had said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dara had shrugged him off. His jaw set, his back straight, his eyes red, he had looked at Khayzur and said, “Get someone to clean this mess up. And get rid of their stuff. All of it.” 

He had not shed a tear since.

Dara sat now, the knuckles of his right hand white as he clasped his chair. In his left, he held his phone, the text he had drafted to the stranger he knew nothing of staring up at him from the screen. He erased it and set the phone aside. 

With heavy eyes, he got back to work. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Nahri's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a while to update. Was (am) in a bit of writing slump, but I hope you enjoy. 💕

“You’re getting better.” Nahri whipped her head up at the voice, pulling her attention away from the patient records settled before her. “At not snapping at the patients, I mean.” She scowled, turning back to the paperwork.

“I’m sure you have better things to do than stand around taunting me, Doctor Nisreen,” she said in a lofty voice. Nisreen chuckled before placing a cup of amber liquid beside Nahri’s hand. Green tea with lemon, she suspected. But Nahri wasn’t in the mood for tea.“This system is fuc— I mean, messed up. Her insurance won’t cover her treatment anymore so, what, she should just go home and wait to die?”

That wiped the smile off Nisreen’s face. She hurried over to look at the file then sighed, a sound so helpless that Nahri’s frustration increased. “We can’t do anything about that,” Nisreen said, disappointment etched across her face. “The hospital won’t let us.”

“You’re her neurosurgeon,” Nahri jabbed a finger at the room where old Mrs. Russo lay sleeping, her frail arms pierced with catheters. “There has to be something you can do.”

“There isn’t. There are policies in place and I am in no position to override them, Miss Nahid.” Nahri clenched her jaw. This was  _ fucked _ . “And you can’t do anything about it either. You’re a student. You keep your head down, do what you’re told until you become someone who  _ can _ do something about it.”

“And until then, the rich and the employed get to live while this hospital and this system weeds out the poor and the elderly, is that it?” The voice inside her head was telling her that she was being unfair, that Nisreen had little to no authority in how finances were handled, but Nahri felt  _ so _ tired all of a sudden. Day after day, she had to turn people away because their insurance wouldn’t cover the simplest procedures and they couldn’t pay out-of-pocket costs. Day after day, she grew closer to the realization that people like her — people with very little to their name — were expendable. It was easier to turn away strangers, but Nahri had spent the last few weeks listening to Mrs. Russo chat about her son who lived across the country, and the poodle who was staying with a neighbor while she stayed at the hospital, and how much she liked white lilies. Telling her to return home and wait for death surrounded by nobody but her dog was so cruel.

“It is a hard truth we all have to reckon with,” Nisreen was saying as angry tears welled up in Nahri’s eyes. She blinked them away rapidly before the other woman could see. “But we are doctors, not policy makers—“

“We are doctors. Isn’t it your job to treat people who need it?” Nisreen stood back, her expression calm even as she registered the crack in Nahri’s voice.

“Go home, Miss Nahid.” She said quietly. “You’re done for the day.” Nahri glared at Nisreen for a moment before brushing past her, not daring to look Mrs. Russo’s way again. With any luck, she would be discharged before Nahri had to look her in the eye and say goodbye.

Furiously, she stuffed her stethoscope in her locker and changed out of her scrubs. A few months ago before she’d started her neurosurgery rotation, she had been so excited. It was all she’d ever wanted to do and now here she was, wondering if any of it was even worth it. Nisreen had told her to keep her head down and trudge along until she was someone who could change things, but what good would that do to the people they denied treatment today? Swinging her bag onto her shoulder, Nahri made her way out of the hospital.

She caught the 6 train to Brooklyn, ignoring how her stomach grumbled with hunger. Forty minutes later, she nudged open the door of her apartment with a shoulder and entered the cramped living room. Immediately after dropping her belongings and coat to the floor, she rushed to the fridge, pulled out some slices of turkey and proceeded to make herself a sandwich. She was sitting at the small table, chewing on her food while looking absentmindedly at her unmade mattress in the corner of the living room, when the door opened and Subha walked in.

“Hello,” Subha said happily, placing her duffel bag on the floor next to the pile of Nahri’s coat. Nahri grunted a response, her mouth full of turkey and bread. “You’re home early.”

“I got kicked out.”

“No! What did you do?” Subha came to sit opposite her, her deep brown eyes wide and curious. 

“Tell the truth.” Nahri stuffed the last bite into her mouth then sat back, arms folded across her chest as she appraised Subha. “And why exactly did  _ you _ decide to make an impromptu overnight trip upstate with your fiancé, that too in the middle of the week? You’re moving in with him next month.” Nahri’s stomach did a little flip at the thought, but she pushed her anxiety away into the darkest corner of her mind. 

“We just felt like it,” Subha shrugged. “Parimal took today off and I didn’t have any rounds scheduled at the hospital, so why not?”

“Well, I’m very happy for you but it would have been nice if you’d told me before so I wouldn’t have had to spend the night at a stranger’s house.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t remember your key if your life depended on it, and I’d been trying to reach you since, like, 9 so don’t put that on— wait.” Subha sat up, her eyes even wider than before. “You spent the what at a what?”

“A stranger. A big, intimidating-looking man with tattoos, cigarettes and a lair,” she answered. “You’re a terrible friend.”

“Nahri e-Nahid, is this your way of telling me you hooked up with a stranger?”

Completely to her mortification, Nahri felt herself flush. “No! No. I just made a friend. And he was nice. And he let me crash at his place when I couldn’t get into the apartment, that’s it.” She looked down at the jumpsuit she was still wearing from last night, having gone straight to the hospital from Dara’s place. The jumpsuit he had washed and ironed and placed neatly on the couch outside her room like her own private room service. Nahri bit back a smile.

“And who is this new friend of yours?” Subha asked, an eyebrow cocked. Nahri hesitated for a brief moment, wondering whether she should tell Subha about Nahri’s sad attempt at robbing him before she launched into the story, throwing caution to the wind. Flashes of the previous night came to her as she spoke. Spotting a man sitting alone at a bar in a suit dripping wealth, making her way to him, being slightly dazed when after brushing her off at first he had turned his bright green eyes onto her, giving her his full attention. A chase in the rain, his surprisingly warm hand on her arm as he’d pulled her under an awning, looking at her with a mix of surprise and curiosity— anything  _ but _ anger. And in his home, sitting in the darkness, the only light coming from the twinkling city outside his window, when he had shifted away from her on the couch. Nahri had felt a little disappointed, but she left that part out. And then falling asleep in a room bigger than Subha’s entire apartment, in a bed of silk sheets and feather pillows, in a shirt that smelled faintly of smoke and something citrusy. 

When she was done, Subha looked at her through narrowed eyes for a long moment. “I don’t trust rich men. And I don’t trust lawyers either.” Nahri laughed; somehow, this was a response perfectly-Subha response. “So… when are you seeing him again?”

“I’m not,” Nahri said with a note of finality. She had enough on her mind. “With hospital rotations, trying to find a job on the side, and worrying about where I’m going to live when you move out, I don’t have the time for anything else. Besides, I’m sure he doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Subha shot her a withering glare. “You robbed him. And instead of handing you over to the cops, he bought you dinner, drove you all the way here, then let you crash at his place after which he washed and ironed your clothes.” Silence fell between them, broken only by the tick-tock of the living room clock. Subha’s eyes were still fixed on Nahri’s face, a challenge in her gaze and Nahri felt all her resolve melt away.

“Fine!” She said, throwing up her hands. “Fine.” 

Subha gave her a sweet smile before getting to her feet. “Good girl.” She grabbed her duffel bag and went to her room, shutting the door behind her with a click. Nahri sighed before pushing back her own chair and grabbing her bag from where she’d dropped it on the floor. She felt for the inner pocket then retrieved the card she’d stashed inside. 

Darayavahoush e-Afshin. Afshin & Associates. In clean font beneath his name and the name of his firm was a phone number and his office address. Nahri looked down at the card for a moment, debating with herself. “Friday.” She said softly to herself before slipping the card into her abysmally light wallet.

Three days later, Nahri was standing outside an imposing building in the heart of Tribeca. Much like everything else about him, his workplace screamed ‘elite,’ with its facade made almost entirely of glass and steel, huge potted plants framing the doorway and a marble floor shining within. Standing outside the entrance with his card held in one hand, her phone in the other, Nahri felt incredibly f00lish. He had done a nice thing for her, and that was it. She highly doubted he wanted to see her again, so why was she here?  _ Because you want to be _ , an annoyingly smug voice whispered in her ear. Nahri scowled and before she could change her mind, she walked inside.

The receptionist directed her to the twentieth floor and as the elevator ascended, Nahri began to fuss with her hands, feeling nervous. Yet again, she wondered what the hell she was doing here. But then the doors opened and she shuffled out of the elevator and into the office. 

There were people everywhere, clad in charcoal and gray and navy suits, rushing in and out of cubicles and rooms with piles of documents in hand. Quiet voices and keyboard clicks and the sound of shuffling papers. She blinked - all these people worked for  _ him _ ?

“May I help you?” A voice came from her left. Nahri looked over to see a young man peering at her from behind a desk, a sign indicating that this was the reception.

“Uh, yes. Is Dara here?”

“Do you have an appointment? Are you a client?” He spoke slowly as if she were stupid. Her temper flared.

“No and no,” she napped. “It’s a simple enough question: is Dara around?” 

“He’s in a meeting-”

“Hey, no walk-ins for the rest of the day,” came another voice from behind her but the man wasn’t speaking to her. “And if there’s any meetings scheduled, see if you can cancel those - we’re swamped.” The newcomer seemed to notice then, with some surprise, that the receptionist had been in the middle of a conversation. “Hello. Are you a walk-in?”

“No,” she replied, heaving a sigh. The man was handsome with jet black hair and sharp, gray eyes. He spoke with casual charm but he held himself like nobility in his pristine blue suit, his shoulders held back in perfect posture. Something about him oozed authority, and Nahri had a feeling she wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. “My name is Nahri. I’m here to see Dara.”

“I told her that Mr. Afshin is in a meeting,” the receptionist spoke up quickly. The man peered at her through narrowed eyes for a moment as if he were evaluating the situation, then clapped his hands together.

“What did you tell Nahri that for?” He shot her a dazzling smile before gesturing for her to follow. “I didn’t know he was expecting a friend. It’s very rare. He’s not the best company, you see.” 

“Isn’t he your boss?” she asked and he laughed. 

“Technically,” he shrugged, leading her through the office, her sneakers squeaking against the marble in a way that made her flinch with every step. “But I can’t let his head get too big. That’s part of my job.” He stopped outside a large door tucked away from the rest of the office. With two quick raps against the door, he opened it and stuck his head inside. “You have a visitor.”

“Muntadhir, I don’t have  _ time _ for visitors.” 

“You have plenty of time. He’s just being dramatic,” Muntadhir said to Nahri pleasantly. 

“Fine,” Dara snapped. Muntadhir stepped back after opening the door wide for her and Nahri moved forward. She heard Muntadhir leave behind her as she stepped into the office. Dara sat at a desk of dark mahogany, his hair tied up, his back to a wall of glass with the city sprawled below them, his eyes still fixed on the file in front of him.

“Hi,” she said casually. He looked up then and their eyes met, his widening ever so slightly. Then, faintly, almost imperceptibly, one corner of his lips twitched up.

“Hi.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much happens in this one, but I just enjoy writing their conversations. Hope y'all aren't bored.

They looked at each other for a long moment before Dara pushed his chair back and stood up, taking his glasses off and placing them on top of the papers he’d been so focused on.  _ Shame _ , that annoying voice said inside her head.  _ They looked good on him _ . “How did you know where I worked?” He finally said, burying his hands in his pockets. He liked doing that, she’d noticed.

She held up his business card which she was still clutching in her hand. “I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart.” Dara nodded, smiling slightly, taking her jab with good spirit. 

“So what brings you here? Can I help you with anything?” Goodness, he was so formal, his words polite and well-mannered, each word enunciated with the utmost precision. And while a few days ago he’d been comparatively disheveled, he completely looked the part now in his charcoal gray suit, the shirt buttoned all the way up. 

“I’m here to take you to lunch,” she announced. Dara was taken aback at her confident declaration but then he slowly shook his head.

“You don’t have to do that. And besides, I cannot. I am rather busy today.” He gestured vaguely at the papers spilled out on his desk, a laptop settled on one edge and his phone on the other, buzzing with notifications. 

“I’m already here,” she said, holding out her hands nonchalantly.

“Perhaps some other time,” he replied, his words slow, as if he were second-guessing them even as he spoke.

She should probably have said an  _ of course, silly me _ and walked away; instead, Nahri shuffled further into his office, coming to stand opposite him. She wouldn’t come all this way again. “Come on, busy man,” Nahri said, placing the palms of her hands on the desk. “You can’t spare two hours? Even the President eats lunch.” Dara looked around a little helplessly at his office, and she could almost see the cogs whirring inside his head. 

Finally, he grabbed his phone.

After shrugging into a coat that looked tailor-made for him, he held open the door. “After you.” He was adjusting the collar when she brushed past him, shooting him a triumphant smile. “Where are we going?” He asked as they walked to the elevator. 

“My place,” she replied simply. If he was startled, he didn’t show it but the other people in the office exhibited no such restraint. Shocked faces looked up from their screens and papers to watch them pass. With a prickle, it dawned on her how out-of-place she was here, how ridiculous she looked next to him in her leggings and her oversized sweater and the sneakers that were still squeaking their way across the polished floor. Fixing her gaze on the elevator doors, Nahri quickened her pace.

“Tell Muntadhir I’ll be back in a while,” Dara said to the receptionist.

“Yes, sir,” he stammered. Then the elevator doors opened and they were gone and Nahri breathed a sigh of relief. His world wasn’t so intimidating when it was just him beside her. 

When they exited the building, Dara turned to face her. “Should I have the car called?” Nahri shook her head and pointed past his shoulder.

“You’ll take the subway today like us mere mortals. My treat.” She held up a yellow Metrocard. He raised an eyebrow at her, his hands once again in his pockets.

“As you wish,” he said and they began to walk to the station. On her phone, she pulled up the MTA app, trying to figure out the route back… she’d lived in the city for years now, but the routes still eluded her. She felt his eyes on her while she perused the map. They’d have to take the 2 line then transfer at— “Fulton Street,” he said softly. “We can take the 2, transfer to the 4 at Fulton Street and then we’ll be good.”

Scowling, she pushed her phone into her pockets. “You’re an insufferable show-off, did you know that?” He shot her a grin. Nahri tried to ignore how stupidly beautiful he looked with a smile on his face. 

“I know this city like the back of my hand. It is what it is.” They descended the stairs.

“Even the subway lines? I didn’t think you’d be acquainted with this… mess,” she said, nodding towards the shockingly large rat scurrying across the tracks. She suppressed a shudder. Four years ago, Nahri had moved from Vermont to New York for medical school, bright-eyed and hopeful. The city had always seemed to sparkle on TV, but the reality had hit her like a freight train when she’d arrived. The bags of garbage rotting in the sun on street corners, the litter on the streets, rats the size of small dogs strolling around like they owned the place. 

“Even the subway lines,” Dara answered as light filled the tunnel. Dara suddenly reached out for her arm and pulled her gently away from the edge of the platform, out of the yellow line. “Careful,” he muttered, though he seemed surprised that he’d done it, an unreadable expression crossing his face. 

He took a seat and she squeezed in beside him, the old woman on her other side grunting in annoyance. Trying to give her as much space as she could, Nahri scooted closer to him until the sides of their legs touched. “I, er,” he started, leaning back against his seat. “I used the subway exclusively all through middle school and high school. Sometimes my friends and I would ditch school to make a day-trip to Coney Island instead. And…” he paused, grimacing. “Someone I knew used to love finding new places to eat at. We’d catch a train and travel for two hours to the middle of nowhere in Queens or the Bronx to check out the newest halal cart. Hence the subway knowledge.”

Playfully, she nudged his shoulder with hers. “An ex-girlfriend keeping you on your toes, then?” 

“No. Not a girlfriend,” he said stiffly. Before she could respond or pry the way she wanted to, he deftly changed the subject. “Top five halal carts in the city? You have to have a top five.” Nahri grinned, then began to list them while he listened with rapt attention, interjecting with his objections and agreements. 

*

“Thank you for such a delicious meal,” Dara said formally, sitting back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Nahri scowled, looking down at the very simple plate of falafel she’d made him. She wasn’t much of a chef and she knew it, but she’d  _ tried _ . She was about to declare that he was an ass for teasing her, but when she looked up, he wore an endearingly earnest expression.

“Oh,” she sputtered, slightly flustered. “No big deal.” He was looking at her again, his green gaze fixed upon her face with an intensity that made her want to hide. He didn’t do it on purpose or for any reason. It was just how he was, she was beginning to realize. Serious. Intense. 

As she finished up her food, she felt him survey the cramped apartment. She wondered how it must look to someone like him: the mattress she’d haphazardly made before leaving. Two suitcases, stashed beside the fridge, holding the stuff that didn’t fit in the sad excuse of a closet that was hers. Nahri scratched the back of her neck. 

Dara pushed back the chair and stood, gathering their plates. “You’re such a domestic,” she said, watching him pull up his sleeves before running the dishes under the tap. “You do all this at home too? I figured you’d hire people to clean for you.”

“I have hands that can do it just fine.” He paused before continuing. “I like things orderly. Things are chaotic enough as is. The things I can control, I do so. And being domestic, as you put it, keeps me busy.” 

“You’re busy enough as is, aren’t you?” Nahri didn’t remark at how ridiculous he looked in his office clothes, squeezing dish detergent onto the plates, soap suds clinging to his tattoo.

Dara shrugged in reply, stacking the plates carefully by the sink. “It’s not that bad.”

“Liar.” He gave her a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Before she could tell the impulsive part of her brain to shut it, she blurted out the question she’d been wanting to ask him since she’d stepped into his empty apartment. “Doesn’t it get lonely?” She regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth because he stiffened, his expression shuttering. She barreled on, hoping to cover up whatever misstep she’d made with more words. “I just mean… if I’m alone in this place for a couple of days, it starts to drive me a little mad. I wondered if it’s like that for you in that lair of yours is all.” 

He relaxed a little before he met her gaze. “My lair,” he repeated. 

“You’re very Batman… ish.” That made him smile and she felt herself return it, but she didn’t miss that he’d evaded her question yet again. He kept doing that.

“I know we only saw each other a few days ago,” he started. “But have you managed to find someplace else to live?” When she shook her head, he added, “Oh. Can I help?”

“No, I don’t think you can.” She played with her fingers, the complete lack of certainty regarding her future crashing down on her once again. With her hospital rotations, she barely had time to look for a side job, and between school and trying to find work, she barely had time to look for housing. Not that she’d be able to find someplace to stay without a job. Once Dara would leave, Nahri would grab her coat and go door-to-door, asking if they had any vacancies. But most employers who were looking to hire didn’t want to place their bets on a medical student with such a volatile schedule anyway. A lose-lose, all around.

“I apologize. I did not mean to pry,” Dara spoke up, perhaps misreading her stress for annoyance. He sat down opposite her again, rolling down his sleeves and re-buttoning his cuffs with deft fingers. “How’s school?” It was a clear attempt to change the subject and distract her, but it was a misplaced attempt.

“This country’s a cesspool,” she said. He raised an eyebrow. “I cannot believe the amount of hoops people have to jump through to get medical care. I have to turn people away every single day because they can’t afford the simplest procedures. Procedures that take us a few hours to do but are the difference between life and death. The whole system is fucked. And the fear these people live in because they know the system’s not on their side...” She felt herself getting riled up, but he was listening patiently. 

She paused, placing her elbows on the surface of the table and resting her face in her palms. He wasn’t interjecting. He wasn’t giving her empty platitudes like the people in her profession did, with their meaningless ‘we can make it betters’ and ‘that’s just how things are dones.’ He was just listening, and so she kept speaking.

“Yesterday, a woman came in with her little girl. God, Dara, you should have seen her face. Bruised and swollen. She had a broken nose and pain in her side because her broken ribs hadn’t healed properly.”

“Intimate partner violence,” he stated more than asked. She nodded.

“The little girl wasn’t injured or anything, thank God. But I spoke to her mother about what had happened, urged her to file a police report. Her husband’s a cop,” she spat out. “No one in the NYPD’s going to do anything about it. And then on top of all that, they’re in the middle of a custody battle. He wants their daughter, and he’s probably going to get custody because she can’t afford a good attorney and has minor misdemeanors in her past while he’s an  _ officer of the law _ . A shining beacon of morality who just happens to beat his wife.”

Silence fell between them as Nahri seethed, picturing the woman’s helpless, frightened face. She’d kept glancing at her daughter - furtive looks, as if she was scared she’d disappear from under her nose in the time it took Nahri to stitch up the gash on her arm. 

“I can help,” Dara said then, softly. Nahri frowned before she remembered who she’d been talking to. And then she felt like she had to explain herself.

“I didn’t tell you all that because I wanted you to be her attorney, I swear,” she said. 

“I would not mind it even if you had,” Dara replied, unfazed. “I would like to help. I am not well versed in family law, but I have people in my firm who are very competent. They would look into it if I ask them to.” Nahri sat back. 

“I don’t have her contact information,” she said slowly.

“Hospital records.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s breaking a dozen hospital rules and isn’t there a law against giving out a patient’s confidential information to third-parties?”

“You’re a con woman in the making, as I remember it. And besides,” Dara leaned forward with a glint in his eyes. “Which one of us is going to tell?” 

Nahri thought about it. From how things were looking, she wasn’t going to be working at the hospital for much longer anyway. She might as well go out breaking the rules, like she’d wanted to her entire time there. “Okay.” Dara tilted his head in her direction.

“Okay.” Having settled that, he got to his feet again, unwrapping his suit jacket from the back of his chair. A nugget of disappointment settled deep within Nahri’s stomach as she watched him gather his wallet and his phone, readying himself to leave. But she stood, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “Your turn next,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. He glanced at her in surprise while he donned his jacket. “I have to give you her information next time, remember?” Dara held up his phone and tapped the screen.

“Texts exist, little thief,” he said but he was smiling. 

Nahri stepped closer to him. “Where’s the fun in that?” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara broods as the anniversary of his family's death approaches.

**Two Weeks Later**

Sirens pierced the crisp air, the wails echoing off the walls of buildings that stretched up into the sky. There was very little about this city that remained constant, but the sirens? The sirens never stopped. Cars ambled to the sides of the road, pedestrians stopped in their tracks to let the ambulance through and Dara wondered whose life hung in the balance in that moment, whose life pushed a bustling Fifth Avenue to a standstill for just a single moment. And then the ambulance rushed past and the cars unfroze and resumed their honking, and the pedestrians began to walk to wherever they were heading, and whoever had been in that vehicle became nothing but a second taken from these people’s day. Dara walked, too.

Cutting the island horizontally, he made his way east. Through his neighborhood with its glittering sidewalks, doormen he knew by face nodding at him as he passed. Stores with colorful windows, marketing purses and suits that cost more than most people earned in a month. Horse-drawn carriages rolling to a stop in front of the Plaza Hotel, pinpricks of yellow light winking from the vast building’s windows. He had stayed there once, for a week. Just for the sake of it. Just because he could. 

Further east, the shops and the tourists thinned, the residential buildings gave way to cramped office spaces and convenience stores and souvenir shops. Here, the walls were covered with graffiti. The floors were stained, no special grain added to the concrete to make it sparkle because the illusion was not necessary here. People lay on the sidewalks bundled in comforters, cardboard signs fluttering feebly beside them. 

Over the course of three blocks and seven minutes, it felt as if he’d stepped into another world. The city was a lie. Glamorous and shimmering on its surface, forlorn and dark within. No wonder he belonged. 

He reached the Hudson River and took a seat at his usual bench, pulling out a cigarette. He twirled it between his gloved fingers before lighting it and placing it between his lips. Inhaling, he squinted to look at the boats bobbing over the water. 

Before his family had been taken from him, he would come here with them. Sometimes he chided himself for not holding onto the memories better, for not being able to remember every time he had sat here with them. But he remembered some of it. Like how his father would speak absentmindedly about politics and work while Dara chimed in with strategic suggestions that made his father’s eyes twinkle with something akin to pride. Or how his mother would scold him for spending too much time at the gym and not enough time eating, then swiftly switch gears to discuss marriage prospects. “Maman, I am only 24,” he would say, annoyed. A bit amused.

“So start looking now, so you can get married by 26,” she would retort as if this timeline was the most understood thing in the world. 

And then, there had been Tamima. She came here as often as he did, pulling her skinny legs onto the bench, headphones jammed over her head as she people-watched. He would sit beside her in silence, watching the boats and the water and the lights of Brooklyn across the river. “He’s killed at least three people,” she’d once said out of the blue, jerking a thumb towards a gaunt man in a black coat with pale gray, shifty eyes. “Bet he has someone tied up in his trunk right now.”

“You need to stop watching those true-crime documentaries,” he had responded, unfazed by his thirteen year old sister’s objectively alarming declaration. 

“I’m just saying.” Dara had snorted in response. Now, he looked at the empty space beside him and could still picture her sitting there, eyes narrowed shrewdly, inventing stories about the people who walked obliviously past them.

“You’re brooding,” he heard a familiar voice remark.

“This city is too big for you to be able to find me like this,” Dara replied without looking.

“You’re a predictable man.” Muntadhir took a seat beside him, holding out a hand. Dara handed over a cigarette. Muntadhir leaned forward, hands cupped around his mouth as Dara lit it. 

“Mooch,” Dara accused lightly. His friend rarely smoked (preferring alcohol as his vice), but when he did, he used Dara’s cigarettes. They sat quietly for a while, blowing puffs of smoke into the chilly air. Muntadhir was the one to break the silence, as he always was.

“Remember sophomore year in college? I dragged you to a party and bullied you into smoking a joint?”

“You flatter yourself, Dhiru,” Dara said. “You were a scrawny smart-ass with delusions of grandeur, which have clearly persisted if you think you could bully me into anyth—“

“When you were high, you complained about how I’d, and I quote, ‘besmirched your image.’” Dara shut up promptly. “You were so straight-laced and obedient. Practically begging for an intervention.”

Dara remembered the night his friend was speaking of. They had been sitting on the rooftop of their dorm after a midterm, beers in hand, legs dangling over the edge of the building. Dara had told Muntadhir about how his life was planned out for him, how every step he took led him towards a position with his father’s firm. The beer had loosened his tongue a little, and in a moment of quiet rebellion, he had whispered, “I don’t want any of it.” But who was Dara to refuse his father his dream? When he had given his son everything one could hope for— wealth and education and opportunity. Muntadhir had looked at Dara quizzically, then slapped him on his back.  _ You, my friend, _ he’d said,  _ need to lighten up _ . 

“God, I laughed like a madman that day. I had cramps in my abdomen the next morning.” Dara felt himself smile at the memory, how he’d lain on his back in the college football field, cold blades of grass sticking to his bare arms, laughing at everything and nothing at once. He took another drag of his cigarette. 

“I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a long time now.” Dara stiffened on instinct, and saw Muntadhir glance at him from the corner of his eye. 

“Perhaps you should get me high again.”

“I’m serious.” Muntadhir turned to face him, flicking his cigarette into the water. Dara watched the water envelope it. “And it’s getting worse. I know this time of the year has to be hard on you, but you can’t spend the rest of your existence like this. Feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Careful, Qahtani,” Dara snapped, his temper flaring. “Not all of us can drink through life the way you do.” Muntadhir simply gave him a small smile at that, and the lack of a reaction forced Dara to pull the reins on his anger. He switched gears, starting to realize how obvious it must be to those around him that he was scrambling to change the subject. “Have you started on the custody case?”

“I have,” Muntadhir said, getting to his feet. “We’re drafting the petition. It seems straightforward, but it’s not like we take family law cases often. The research is taking some time. She might have been better off with a firm that specializes in this area, Dara.”

Dara sighed. He had been considering that himself over the last week. That he had jumped on the opportunity far too quickly without assessing whether it was in the client’s best interest. But then again, his firm was well-reputed, he had some of the best associates working around the clock, and all the tools they needed to succeed were out there. Even so, he said, “All the paperwork goes through me, alright? Make sure of it.”

“Suit yourself.” Dara stood too, savoring the feel of the wind against his skin. 

“Chinese food?” He asked Muntadhir, who grinned at him. Dara took that as a yes. “Call your better half over to the apartment. We’ll make it a feast.” He clapped Muntadhir on the shoulder as they turned their backs on the river, beginning their walk back to his world.

“I’ll text Nahri as well.”

Dara’s head snapped up. Almost as if he were acting on instinct, he snatched his friend’s phone from his hands only to see a message aimed at Muntadhir’s husband, reading ‘come have dinner at dara’s’ with a kiss emoji tacked on at the end. Muntadhir took his phone back, an amused glint in his eye.

“I’ll text her myself,” Dara grunted, pulling his phone out. She was the last person he’d messaged - just last evening when she’d sent him an updated list of her favorite halal carts in the city. Apparently, she’d found one in Brooklyn while searching for jobs that had shot to third place. He had spoken to her almost everyday in the last two weeks. Sometimes about the case. Sometimes about her job search. And often about mundane things, like the TV she watched (medical soaps, so she could point out everything they got wrong) and the music she listened to (pop, because it was uncomplicated) and the one place she’d rather be at any given moment (Egypt, because that was where her mother’s family was from). They’d met too. Once to go speak with the woman whose case he’d taken, for lunch immediately after, and then twice more for coffee. 

With gloved fingers, he typed out a text. Within seconds, he had a response. ‘I’ve eaten already.’ Trying not to let the disappointment show on his face, he was about to tell Muntadhir it would just be the three of them when another message popped up. ‘I’m on my way. Give me an hour.’ Dara smiled and pocketed his phone, turning to face his friend.

“You’ve been with Jamshid for five years now. Kiss emojis? Really? Nauseating.”

“Says the man blushing like a schoolgirl over a text.” Dara shoved Muntadhir off the sidewalk, his friend’s laughter carrying on the wind.

Thirty minutes later, they were carrying bags of Chinese takeout up to his apartment, the smell of soup and steamed vegetables lathered in sauce making his mouth water. When the elevator dinged open on his floor, Dara saw a man leaning casually against his front door. Black hair slicked casually back from his face, a pair of round, gold-rimmed glasses framing his black eyes. Jamshid Pramukh straightened when he saw them, an easy smile brightening his face. The smile that made everyone who came across him want to know him. 

“Salām, hālet chetore?” Dara greeted Jamshid pleasantly in Farsi before dumping the bags of food unceremoniously into his hands. Ignoring the other man’s protests, Dara clicked open the door to his apartment and led them inside. 

He was in the kitchen, unboxing the various cartons of food, when Jamshid joined him. Silently, Jamshid retrieved plates and utensils from the cabinets, knowing exactly where everything was, as if it were his own home. The weeks after the accident, Muntadhir and Jamshid had dropped by often. While Dara was all too happy to immerse himself in work, discussing litigation and contracts with Muntadhir in front of the fireplace, Jamshid would do what he did best: cook. Dara was sure that Jamshid had single handedly kept him alive by feeding him with stern commands but gentle eyes. So of course he knew where all the dishes and utensils were kept.

“What is  _ that _ ?” Jamshid asked, raising his eyebrows at the carton Dara was upending into a bowl, his nose scrunched up at the smell of meat. They were both vegetarians, much to Muntadhir’s dismay.

“Kung pao beef. It’s not for us.” Jamshid piled food onto two dishes, then took one to Muntadhir who was lounging casually on the sofa, tuned into HBO. Handing it to his husband, Jamshid turned to go to the powder room. Dara was licking some stray sauce off the side of his thumb when the doorbell rang, and he hurried over with his plate in hand to answer it.

Nahri stood in the doorway, her hair tied into a braid that hung over her shoulder, wearing a dark turtleneck and a green coat only slightly darker than the color of his eyes. She smiled up at him and mouthed a ‘hello.’  _ Pretty _ , he thought. She was so pretty. “Hi,” he said, sounding stupid. 

“I know I said I ate, but  _ that _ ,” she nodded at his plate, “looks really good.” She paused and her eyes widened. “Do I smell kung pao beef? You wonderful man, you.” She shouldered her way past him and straight into the kitchen, calling out a greeting to Muntadhir. Without bothering to take a plate, Nahri attacked the beef with a pair of chopsticks, leaning her elbows on the marble countertop.

“Here,” Dara passed over the bowl of rice to her.

“Fanks,” she said through a mouthful of beef and Dara grinned, turning to his own food. They were standing side by side in amiable silence when Jamshid came back into the living room.

“We have company,” Muntadhir announced to his husband. Jamshid turned amicably to face the kitchen, his face earnest and his eyes bright--

\--and then it was as if the light had gone out from them. His smile fell as he looked at Nahri, brow furrowed in confusion. Dara straightened in surprise, turning to see a similar look of shock contorting her features.

“ _ Nahri _ ?” Jamshid asked, his voice soft with disbelief. A mix of emotions played across Nahri’s face at the sound of her name leaving Jamshid’s mouth. At first, it appeared as if she would cry and Dara almost reached out to touch her cheek... but then she pursed her lips and then her eyes narrowed in an expression of abject contempt.

“You,” she hissed. 


End file.
